


The Words Unspoken

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Series: Periphery Defined [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/F, and karen knows matt's secret, and marci is the queen of the universe but that's not new, basically karen has a secret, it's a little angsty a little fluffy and a little gay, season one, the marci/karen is pretty subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen Page has good days, and she has bad days.</p><p>But mostly she just has a secret that's clawing to get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This story and Small Talk, Stitches, and Beer are largely unrelated; all you need to know from that one is that Marci knows that Matt is Daredevil.
> 
> However, they're written in pretty similar styles and both focused on ladies, so if you like one you'll probably like the other :)

Karen looks at Matt and Foggy, at their kind and open and earnest faces. They're talking, laughing together like they do, and she knows that they're concerned about her. That they dragged her out here tonight because they want to let her know

they're there and

they love her and

they want to know what's going on in her life.

Karen opens her mouth.

"Another round?" she asks, because she can't bring herself to ask the questions she can feel constantly hovering on the tip of her tongue.

("Would you still be here if you knew what I did?")

("Would you be able to love me if I told you what's really been bothering me?")

("Do you really want to know why I can't sleep at night?")

Foggy beams at her, throws an arm around Matt's shoulders, downs his drink. His wiggling eyebrows say "Karen, the plan for tonight is to _literally drink every ounce of booze in this bar_."

Matt's huff and rolled eyes and elbow nudge say "Karen, if you bring him anything more to drink, make it _water_."

Karen waves a hand impatiently at Foggy and adds a verbal "I need an actual answer," for Matt's benefit.

"I would LOVE more booze," Foggy declares, as Matt says amiably, "I think we're done for the night."

She smothers a smile behind her hand, because how could she not. She knows them so well

(and they barely know her at all)

and she knows what's coming next, too.

Matt's going to bring up some past event.

"We do not need a repeat of That One Time in '07, Foggy," he says, exasperation thick in his tone.

Foggy's going to wave off the comparison.

"Okay, A?" He raises one finger, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "That One Time in '07 was _fucking legendary_. And, B," he raises a second finger, "I'd have to drink. Like." His face scrunches up as he thinks. "A whole 'nother eel before I'd even get _close_ to that drunk."

And this is when she prompts them, even though she's heard the story before.

"Remind me what happened That One Time in '07?" she cajoles, and Foggy hems and haws for a bit while Matt shakes his head.

Every time they tell this story, the police officer Foggy accidentally hits on has more pictures of cats on their phone and the girl who picks them up on the side of the highway has a more expensive car. It's a nice story.

Familiar.

Foggy finally launches into the narrative (with another wiggle of his eyebrows), and Karen almost forgets to wonder if the gun she threw in the river has settled into the mud or been carried out into the ocean.

***

Karen likes to run.

Not from her past, no, just. Around the block, around the park. A one-two rhythm of step and breath and heartbeat. The pull in her muscles, the burn in her lungs.

It helps her stays in shape, partially, but that's not _why_ she runs. When she came to New York, she would wander, run new streets, get a feel for the new world she found herself in.

And once upon a time, back in her home town, running was a form of meditation. Empty time to fill with thoughts,

to find new solutions to old problems,

to analyze and consider the events of her life.

Revision:

Karen _liked_ to run.

***

She can feel Matt "watching", sometimes, a feeling both like and unlike having someone staring at the back of your head. It's nice, to know he cares, but all it really means is that she hides her secrets further and further inside herself. Layers and layers of deceit and misdirection that she wishes she could fall for, herself.

But today… there's nowhere to hide (nothing to fear) from a day like this.

The sun beats down, bright in a cloudless sky, and there's that tingling-warmth in the air that belies summer's imminent arrival. She can feel the bounce in her step, a lightheartedness of movement she hasn't felt since

(the smell of gunpowder and blood)

before she went to work for Union Allied.

Karen and Matt are walking down the sidewalk. His hand is on the crook of her elbow, a feather light touch to hide the strength in his fingers. She sets her hand over his and squeezes—he turns his head to her and smiles, and she smiles back, even though he has no idea. "I'm doing good today," she tells him through a soft bump of her hip against his.

He bumps back to say "I know. I'm glad."

("I wish I knew why you were ever doing badly.")

Matt keeps his face turned towards her, and she jokes, "Eyes on the road!" Then she sees the frown line between his brows, the tilt of his head—

He's listening for something.

A moment later police cars come screaming around the corner.

His grip tightens, his eyes hidden behind red circle lenses, and Karen gives him the out he needs.

"You know, Matt," she says, idly. "I'd like to stop at that little bodega a block over, maybe grab something for Foggy since he's probably jealous he had to miss our lunch date."

Matt hums, voice a little too thick with lament when he returns, "He had to miss lunch because we have _so_ much work to do. I should _really_ get back to the office."

"Oh, well, the office isn't far!" Karen says, brightly. She squeezes his hand one more time and withdraws her arm from his grip. They come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, the sun painting their shadows nearly directly below them.

"I'm sure you could make it back on your own," she says, and Matt demurs for only a moment longer.

She walks away—giving him her back, the perfect chance to slip away unseen.

He doesn't know her secret.

She does know his.

***

Matt reappears just before dinner, sporting new bruises and a bloodstain on his white shirt.

"I got a bit lost and fell into a manhole," he says, when Foggy and Karen's conversation comes to an abrupt halt.

Foggy stares. Karen plasters on a concerned expression.

"This is why you shouldn't trust the blind guy to navigate alone," Matt says, loudly, and he's positively beaming.

***

One good day doesn't mean she's cured.

Not that it's curing that she needs, per se.

She needs perspective

or peace of mind

or closure

or _something_.

She has no idea what.

She checks her phone—several texts from Foggy, a missed call from Matt. She sends them both a message, short and blunt and just barely enough to keep them from worrying too much. She just—

She can't get out of bed today. She can't look at her bathroom, at the bloodstains that don't exist in her tub yet she can see anyway. She can't set foot in her living room, where Fisk never stood but feels tainted nonetheless.

She just.

Can't.

She curls around her phone, finding the vibrations comforting even if she has no desire to answer.

They care.

("Would they still if I told them?")

***

A week of concerned glances and shattered glass tiptoeing later, Karen hears a knock at her door. For a moment, she sits frozen.

She thinks, "Did I order takeout?"

She thinks, "Did Matt get hurt?"

She thinks, "Is it the police?"

She thinks, "Is it _Fisk_?"

The knock comes again, louder and more aggressive, practically pounding, and a muffled voice shouts, "Open up, Page! It's Marci Stahl!"

She thinks, "What the fuck."

She answers the door.

Marci is a storm personified. She's tall and wild and the way she bares her teeth in satisfaction as she breezes into the apartment feels like a flash of lightning—no. A clap of thunder.

The warning before the real danger.

"I like your place," Marci says without even looking around. Before Karen can even manage a token "thank you" from where she still stands in an open doorway, the lawyer continues. "Look, the boys are worried about you. They keep whispering about what could be wrong and asking my opinion and making puppy dog eyes."

Marci pulls a face. "I mean, Murdock's had puppy dog eyes since I've known him, so that's not that weird, but I swear to fucking God he's gotten _better_ at it. They wobble." She waves a hand in front of her face, lip curling. "Like they do in cartoons. They literally _wobble_. I'm sick of it."

She sits on Karen's couch, one leg crossed over the other and an arm thrown over the back—an elegant, effortless lounge, a king on a throne. Marci raises one eyebrow. "Sit. Talk." She settles into place, gazing at Karen expectantly.

("I'm not leaving until you do.")

Karen looks at her for a moment. "I'm going to need booze," she says, and lets her door fall closed.

***

Karen cradles her whiskey glass to her chest, scrunches up her nose. "Hey, Marci."

Marci's head lolls around to look at her, eyes unfocused and a pleased smirk on her face. "Yeah, Karen."

Karen narrows her eyes. "You probably know this, but."

"Uh huh."

"My bosses are _idiots_."

Marci cackles, leans over to sloppily refill her glass, and Karen groans. "I love them, but _Marci_. I have heard the butcher story _a dozen times_. I haven't even been working with them for a dozen months!" She throws an arm to the side, eyes wide, serious. "That is too many times in too few months, Marci."

Marci cackles again.

"And _Matt_." Karen curls further around her glass, huffs. "I have no words."

Marci pauses, eyes narrowing as if a thought has just occurred to her. "You know he's Daredevil, right?" she asks, and Karen nearly falls off of her couch laughing.

"How could I not," she wheezes. "Fuggin' Murdock doesn't even bother to keep track of his stupid cane."

"I meant _Foggy_ ," Marci says, eyes wide and shocked and sincere enough that, for a single moment, Karen believes her.

She does fall off her couch, this time, and Marci slides down onto the floor to join her. Karen's laughter is bright and airy, full of gasping breaths and giggles and stops and starts, and Marci's is long and loud and fearless.

They're in a heap on the floor, Karen's head on Marci's stomach, when the laughter stops. Its memory hangs in the air, and Karen is so drunk she imagines she can see it, gossamer threads and iridescent bubbles.

"I spilled booze on your floor," Marci tells her.

Karen hums. "I killed a man."

Marci's quiet for a long moment, and then, very emphatically, she says—

"Fucking _shit_ , Karen."

***

Marci holds open the door, and Foggy and Matt file inside. Foggy's face is the very picture of concern, while Matt's is schooled, carefully neutral. He's wearing his glasses, and Karen wishes he wasn't. He always looks so vulnerable without them—callous and unreachable with them.

She clasps her hands together to keep from fidgeting, stares at the wood of her coffee table. It's scratched and worn, a Good Will scrap find like most of the rest of her stuff. She could sand it, maybe. Put a new finish on it.

She hears Foggy fidget, sees in her periphery the intake of breath that means he's about to speak. Hears the sigh of its release because he's changed his mind.

"Thank you for coming," she finally says, and her voice wavers. She still can't look at them.

Marci reaches over to squeeze her shoulder, saying "You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to," without breaking the silence of the room.

Karen closes her eyes, sucks in a deep breath.

"They didn't go after Ben, first," she whispers. "They went after me."

***

 

 

 

Things do and don't change.

She still has good days, and bad days.

She's not sure what she was expecting.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

She's glad she told them.

 

 

 

***

 

"No."

"But Marci—"

"Make Foggy do it."

"Foggy claims he doesn't have the right clothes."

"That is a bald-faced lie, and I'm surprised you're willing to put up with it. In fact, I think we should march right over there and—"

" _Marci_."

"Fine, no crucifixions. Still not doing it."

"Maaaarciiiiiiiiii."

"Make Murdock do it."

"We're both still pretending that we don't know that I know that he's Daredevil."

Marci glares at her, and Karen smiles beseechingly. Nudges the Nike sneakers a little closer to Marci's side of the coffee table.

"I hate you," Marci snarls.

She snatches the shoes. ("I don't hate you.")

"Thank you!" Karen squeals, and throws herself across the table—her arms catch around Marci's shoulders, and her neck is craned at a strange angle while her legs dangle into space. The sneakers are pressing painfully into her chest, and Marci's arms are trapped so she can't return the hug (if she even would have tried.)

Karen doesn't care.

Marci humphs and extricates herself. "Don't take this to mean I like you," she warns, as she strides into her bedroom to change into workout clothes.

Karen returns to her side of the table, attempts to collect herself despite embarrassment and excitement flushed cheeks. "I planned out a nice route, just a little under two miles and mostly through green space! It'll be fun, I promise!"

Marci makes a vicious noise of disagreement.

"I'll make it up to you, then," she laughs, and Marci pokes her head out of the bedroom, eyebrow raised.

"Is that a promise?" she asks, smirking.


End file.
